Letter to the Editor
by March Hare
Summary: Holmes & Company take matters into their own hands... hilarity ensues.


Greetings, one and everyone! Hare here, with this bonus story! Since Chapter Three was so small (my apologies once again), I decided to whip out this little story for all of you! This idea came to me after I had read a similar Law & Order fanfic. Once I got it in my head, it just wouldn't leave me be! I hope you enjoy, and don't forget to review!  
  
~~  
  
Letter to the Editor  
  
By March Hare, the Mad  
  
~~  
  
It was a cold and blustery October afternoon in London. Yesterday's rainstorm had long passed, leaving crisp, bracing air and a brilliant blue sky in its wake. Dr. Watson climbed the steps to his flat and entered, his mood soaring with the magnificent weather. "Holmes, I've returned!" he called cheerily, shedding his overcoat, scarf and hat. He didn't bother informing Holmes that he had come from the National Art Gallery, patiently waiting for his roommate to make the announcement for him. However, Holmes' acerbic voice was silent. Watson spotted him at the dining table, hunched over an odd black contraption, laboriously pressing keys with elaborate slowness. "Holmes, is that. . . a laptop computer?"  
  
"Of course it is, Watson," replied the detective without glancing up.  
  
Watson was greatly taken aback. "What? But Holmes, such a thing does not yet exist!"  
  
"You are exactly correct, my dear chap, and yet we not only know of its existence, we possess one. Exercise your powers of deduction and tell me why."  
  
Watson turned the matter in his head for a moment until he grew sick with realization. "No. . . we're in another one of those fanfiction things!"  
  
Finally Holmes turned his attention from the glowing screen, peering at his comrade over the tops of his reading glasses.* "Brilliant, my dear fellow!" he cried. "Absolutely ingenious; your perspicacity has never been keener."  
  
Despite the usually-sarcastic words, Watson detected a note of amusement rather than scorn in Holmes' tone. "But Holmes," he protested, surveying the surroundings, "how can we be in a fanfiction? Everything seems exactly the same!"  
  
Holmes broke into a wide grin. "Ah, therein lies the trick, Watson. You see, we are in a fanfiction, but I am the one who is writing it!"  
  
"You??"  
  
He laughed heartily. "Me!"  
  
"Holmes, that's ridiculous!" protested the doctor, coming to stand by his friend. "To what possible end could you be writing a fanfiction?"  
  
Holmes gestured to the screen. "I am composing a letter to the myriad of fanfiction authors who insist on butchering us and our life's work. Perhaps with a more personal touch, they can be persuaded to use a bit more discretion in their line of work."  
  
Finally understanding, Watson seated himself in his armchair and perused one of the afternoon papers as Holmes resumed his two-fingered typing.  
  
Click.  
  
Click.  
  
Pause.  
  
Click.  
  
Pause.  
  
Click.  
  
And so on and so forth.  
  
After reading the same line of newsprint for the ninth time, Watson threw down the paper in a heap and shifted from his seat, marching over to the table. "Damn it all, Holmes, this is worse than water torture!" he cried, crossing his arms in exasperation. "Perhaps you should leave the writing to the avowed writer!"  
  
"Agreed!" exclaimed Holmes in relief, tearing off his glasses and almost leaping from his chair. "I graciously concede defeat and beg for your assistance."  
  
Mollified and more than a little curious, Watson took Holmes' place and regarded the screen, skimming past the opening paragraph to examine the list of complaints. "Only two?" he asked.  
  
Holmes stretched himself, glad to be free of the confining task. "Well, I only began less than an hour ago."  
  
"All right, let's see. . ." Watson began to read aloud. "Item One: No Slash."  
  
"Absolutely," chimed Holmes. "Such things go directly against the grain of Victorian morality."  
  
Watson leaned back over the chair, puzzled. "So, all of the times that we- "  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"You mean that you never-"  
  
"No."  
  
Watson returned to the screen, feeling a bit put out. "'Item Two: At no time is Sherlock Holmes to fall into any kind of unprofessional conduct with the opposite sex, especially with opera singers, feminist theologians and/or time-traveling college students.' Is that all?"  
  
Holmes shrugged. "I believe that covers every major transgression regarding myself. Have you anything to add?"  
  
Watson grew thoughtful for a moment. "Yes, actually. I take offense at the scurrilous treatment of my intellect. And I don't appreciate it when they over-sentimentalize my actions. I'm not a fop, you know."  
  
"Undoubtedly not, Watson. Items Three and Four, then." Silence for a moment, accompanied by the exponentially-faster clicking of Watson's fingers on the keyboard. Just as Watson was about to ask if there was anything further, a soft knock came on the door. "Yes, Mrs. Hudson, what is it?" called Holmes.  
  
The door opened slightly and Mrs. Hudson gave the room a quick survey before speaking. "I was only wondering if you wished to take tea this afternoon, sirs. You aren't in with a case, are you?"  
  
"No, Mrs. Hudson," began Holmes, "tea would be lovely, and-"  
  
"Good heavens, what is that?" asked the housekeeper curiously, squinting at the laptop.  
  
Watson picked up the thread of conversation. "We are writing an open letter to the fanfiction authors, trying to correct some of their errors."  
  
"Well, it's about time!" cried Mrs. Hudson. "I was thinking just the other day of how downplayed my roles are in those horrible things. Why, you'd think I was moving scenery!"  
  
"An excellent point, Mrs. Hudson," mused Holmes. "Make a note of that, won't you, Watson? Item Five." Watson obliged, writing the point on the screen. "And now, Mrs. Hudson," continued Holmes, "if you have nothing further to add, we shall eagerly await tea."  
  
Greatly appreciative, Mrs. Hudson bustled downstairs while Holmes and Watson resumed rumination on any further points. After roughly fifteen minutes, no further progress had been made and Holmes was wearing a path into the carpet with his pacing. "Aha! I have one!" the detective suddenly cried. "Item Six: Sherlock Holmes was in no way addicted to cocaine or any other narcotic. A bad habit, certainly, but never addicted."  
  
Watson seemed about to contest the point, but bit his tongue and let it slide. Instead, he commented, "Since that concerns you, I'll shift that up to Item Three and move everything else down. It would make more sense to group complaints by the person offended."  
  
Holmes waved a careless hand and resumed pacing. Shortly afterwards, Mrs. Hudson reappeared bearing a tea tray. "Your tea, sirs, and Mr. Holmes, Inspector Lestrade is here to-"  
  
She was cut off as the little inspector burst into the room, hat in hand, heaving with exertion. "I came. . . as soon as I heard. . . Mr. Holmes," Lestrade gasped, bent almost double.  
  
Holmes grasped the man's arm and led him to the divan. "My word, Lestrade, what has upset you so? Heard about what?"  
  
"That!" Lestrade swallowed and flung an arm towards the laptop. "That letter! That blessed letter!"  
  
"Well, well," said Watson, greatly amused. "Good news certainly travels fast, Holmes."  
  
"Indeed." The detective crossed the room to the sideboard and fixed a whiskey-and-soda, while he promptly delivered to the overwrought inspector. "Now, Lestrade," Holmes began, settling in his armchair as Lestrade gulped the restorative. "I assume that you have something to add to our list."  
  
"Do I ever!" cried Lestrade, whisking an arm across his mouth. "I've had it up to here," the inspector tapped the underside of his chin with the back of his fingers, "with those blasted people poking fun of my intelligence! After all, just because I come to you occasionally, Mr. Holmes, that does NOT mean that I am incompetent as an Inspector! I have a highly respectable solve rate at the Yard, and I won't stand for this. . . this slander any longer!"  
  
"Good heavens, Lestrade, I had no idea you felt so strongly!" said Holmes from his armchair, his sympathy unfeigned. "Watson, are you taking this down?"  
  
"I've rephrased the language a bit, Holmes," returned Watson, causing Lestrade's ears to color slightly. "But I believe that the general idea is there."  
  
"Well, now that you've vented your spleen, Lestrade, perhaps you would care to stay for tea. Perhaps another whiskey?"  
  
Lestrade took a deep breath. "If it's no imposition, Mr. Holmes, tea would be splendid. Although, I do wonder, has anyone come along before me? After all, I can't be the only one who is-" He broke off at the approaching sound of footsteps, too heavy for Mrs. Hudson. The three men turned to the open doorway, growing pale with horror as Professor Moriarty casually entered the room, his hooded eyes surveying them all.  
  
Watson froze in his seat. He briefly considered leaping to the ceiling, but discarded the notion and racked his brain to remember where his revolver was.  
  
Moriarty noticed the action and smiled indulgently, a far cry from his usual razorblade grin. "You may remain in your seat, Dr. Watson, I have not come to antagonize. Like the good inspector here, I have caught wind of this marvelous letter and simply wish to make my own contributions." Turning, he fixed Holmes with a serious gaze. "Truce?" the professor asked.  
  
Holmes returned the gaze with the same intensity before grunting. "Truce."  
  
Moriarty inclined his head at his adversary and crossed the room, settling into the other armchair. Watson felt a rush of possessive anger at the sight of the Napoleon of Crime in HIS armchair, but once more held his tongue and suffered in silence. Moriarty spoke without invitation, leaning back comfortably and addressing the room entire. "I wish to make known my unhappiness at my lack of proper development in fanfiction. All too often I make a single appearance in the second-to-last chapter, toss off a few threatening statements and fade into the background. I cannot fathom why authors could continue to do this."  
  
"Perhaps because that's how it happened in 'The Final Problem,'" Watson muttered under his breath, although no one heard him.  
  
"Very well," Holmes clipped off, feigning nonchalance. "We shall petition for greater character development on your behalf. Will there be anything else?"  
  
"Oh, yes," said the professor, leaning forward. "As the inspector said, we are surely not the only dissatisfied parties here. It would be most expedient if everyone were brought together at the same time."  
  
"But how on earth could we do that?" asked Lestrade.  
  
Moriarty fixed his gaze on Holmes again. "This is YOUR fanfiction, Mr. Holmes. Use it to your advantage."  
  
Holmes started in realization, turning the idea in his mind. Finally, he rose from his chair and spread his hands. With a muttered, "This is foolish," and a bout of concentration, he briskly clapped his hands together. In a flash of light, there appeared in the sitting room an entire host of characters from the Canon. Among them were Mycroft Holmes, Irene Adler, Inspectors Jones, MacKenzie and Bradstreet, Wiggins and the Irregulars and Mary Morstan, along with many others. None of them seemed very happy to be there, and each vocally made it known.  
  
Holmes was astonished at his success and it took him a moment to regain himself before addressing the crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen, please!" he called, spreading his arms. "Your attention, please!" The room eventually quieted and Holmes explained the reason for their attendance. The assorted patrons were overjoyed.  
  
"Thank goodness, Sherlock!" rumbled Mycroft. "I have grown quite weary of those dreadful stories! Please make it known that I am extremely displeased with the over-exaggeration of my. . . ahem, physical appearance." The elder Holmes discreetly gestured to his prodigious waistline and Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek viciously to keep from snickering.  
  
"I believe," crooned Irene, sidling up to the detective, "that you already know of the point that I wish to address, Mr. Holmes."  
  
Holmes took a step away to distance himself from the diva. "Already attended to, Mrs. Norton, rest assured."  
  
"Oi doan't think that me 'n the lads 'ave anything to complain about," mused Wiggins around a mouthful of cake, his fellow Irregulars shamelessly raiding the tea tray. "We've allus been treated roight fairly."  
  
The list grew in length until, finally, the masses seemed exhausted. In closing, Holmes thanked them all for their contributions and clapped again. The room lit up like lightning, except that this time, Lestrade and Moriarty had vanished as well, leaving Holmes and Watson alone with an empty and mysteriously dented tea tray.  
  
"Well," proclaimed Watson, leaning back in his chair. "This is, without a doubt, the strangest fanfiction I have ever seen! You certainly lack nothing in creativity, Holmes!" Rather than taking offense, Holmes smiled, basking in the praise as Watson continued. "What do we do now? Nail our list to the church door?"  
  
"Nothing so volatile, my dear Watson. We merely send it to an individual likely to propagate it."  
  
"Such as?"  
  
Holmes' grin grew wider. "I believe that I have just the person. Although, calling her a person may be pushing the proverbial envelope." Leaning across Watson, the detective keyed a few strokes and pushed return, a beep announcing the delivery of the letter. "And now for the conclusion." With a sudden turn, Holmes strode to his desk and grasped what had begun as a single sentence, but was now pages and pages in Holmes' cramped handwriting. He idly flipped through them before turning to the final page and seizing his pen. "It has been an interesting experience, Watson," he said, hand poised to write. "But I think that, henceforth, I shall leave the writing to you. With a grand flourish, he penned two words at the bottom of the page.  
  
~*THE END.*~  
  
The world faded to black.  
  
*  
  
Several universes away, in a green and verdant field, the sun had not yet risen above the hills, bathing the scene with the grey light of false dawn. The wildflowers that dotted the landscape seemed muted, waiting for the sun's radiance to reveal their full intensity. An old, dusty road wound through the scene leading past a large hill with, oddly enough, a door and several windows set into it. It was something like a hobbit hole, but on a much larger and grander scale. A brass plaque set into the door read:  
  
The Warren -No Solicitors Please-  
  
March Hare sat up in her bed, blinking myopically as she fumbled for her glasses on the bed stand. Once her world came into focus, she swung her legs over the bed and stumbled into the bathroom. She hastily washed up, taking care to wash behind her large, floppy ears, donned a bathrobe and walked out of her bedroom suite. Ever the early. . . well, hare, she was the only one awake as she padded softly past the extremely long hallway of bedrooms into the large kitchen, where she filled and activated five coffeepots in a row on the countertop. There had been a great many changes since she had let them all in off of the lawn; she had had to remodel the entire warren, creating twenty new bedrooms and enlarging the dining room to seat fifty. It was oddly nice, though, to have every Sherlockian under the same roof. Now, every time a Sherlockian visited the fanfiction universe, she (or he) had a place to lay their head. It was like they were a big, happy family. She snorted at that. *More like The Brady Bunch from Hell, is more like it.* True, it was a little troublesome, especially when she was trying to grade papers for the Academy, but she had yet to regret her decision. Yet.  
  
Taking a cup of coffee as soon as it was brewed and checking the chore list to see who was cooking breakfast that day (it was Kittenchatter), she peeked into the living room before heading for the library. She couldn't help but smile at the sight; Black Rose curled up on the couch, Hank Riddle sprawled and snoring in the easy chair, with Vidar, Artic Squirrel, Rosie G and a great deal of pillows and popcorn prone on the rug. A Granada collection played on repeat in the DVD player. Hare could have taken a picture and call it, "Morning After Movie Night, Number 3." Instead, she smothered her giggles and continued to the library.  
  
Seating herself at one of the six computers in the library, she sipped her coffee and logged on, checking her email. "Let's see," she said to herself, opening the first one. "'Dear Strong Bad, how do you type with boxing gloves on your. . .' oh, wait. Wrong email."** She closed it down and move to the next, her jaw dropping as she read the entire letter.  
  
*  
  
My Dear Miss March Hare,  
  
It has frequently been brought to our attention the low quality of research in what we shall tentatively title, "fanfiction." Flattering thought they may be, they show many a glaring error that are sometimes shamelessly exploited by these overzealous authors. To be brief, we wish to correct such flaws and hopefully increase the value of these works.  
  
Item One: No Slash.  
  
Item Two: At no time is Sherlock Holmes to fall into any kind of unprofessional conduct with the opposite sex, especially with opera singers, feminist theologians and/or time-traveling college students.  
  
Item Three: Sherlock Holmes was never addicted to cocaine, morphine or any other narcotic.  
  
Item Four: Dr. Watson was not an idiot.  
  
Item Five: Additional to Item Four, Dr. Watson was similarly never extremely sentimental, unless grave circumstances allowed for it.  
  
Item Six: The following persons wish for an increase in "screen time."  
  
-Mrs. Hudson  
  
-Inspector Bradstreet  
  
-Inspector MacKenzie  
  
-Mary Morstan-Watson  
  
Item Seven: Inspector Lestrade was a valued addition to the Scotland Yard force, and wishes to be treated with the respect he deserves.  
  
Item Eight: Professor Moriarty comments that his character development of late has been nil, and wishes to be properly characterized, despite his villainous state.  
  
Item Nine: Mycroft Holmes resents the rude remarks about his weight, and wishes to be described in more moderation.  
  
Item Ten: Irene Adler wishes you to pay special attention to Item Two.  
  
These ten items are not for our own pleasure, but for your benefit. Please utilize every one and pass it to every author in the vicinity. Thank you in advance for your efforts.  
  
Regards,  
  
-William Sherlock Scott Holmes, Esq.  
  
-John H. Watson, G.P.  
  
*  
  
March Hare read each point with care, flinching a little at Item Two and laughing aloud at Item Nine. At the conclusion, she leaned back and shook her head in amusement. "Sorry, guys," she said to her computer screen. "But that's what fanfiction is for."  
  
*DELETED!*  
  
~~  
  
Tada! How do you like it? Yes, I let y'all into the house. Just remember to clean up after yourself and cook when its your turn.  
  
* Why is Holmes wearing reading glasses? Well, I've always pictured him as nearsighted since he always had Watson read the mail aloud. Plus, men in reading glasses are sexy. Nuff said.  
  
** If you don't get this joke, go to www.homestarrunner.com, a hilarious web cartoon, and check out the Strong Bad E-Mails. It's worth it, I promise.  
  
Well, that's it for now. Keep up the three R's: Reading, Riting and Reviewing! Until next time!  
  
REVIEW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 


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